


Feeling a Room

by organizedrebel



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blind!Reader, F/M, How Do I Tag, Reader is independent, Slice of Life, but you enjoy the company, mostly everyday fluff, this title sucks but it's the best I've got right this second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22189705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/organizedrebel/pseuds/organizedrebel
Summary: You've always been good at reading a room. When you lost your vision, your reliance on that ability doubled, and it especially came in handy when you met Bucky. (Rating solely for occasional swear)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 83





	Feeling a Room

Warm milk. This was your last try. If this didn't make you sleepy, nothing would and you would just stay up the rest of the night. It was some ungodly hour, you were tired and cranky, and you'd left the bed just so your constant tossing and turning wouldn't wake the man in there with you. 

As always, you popped the microwave door before it could make the annoying beeping noise. However, yet again you had underestimated what would wake your partner, because the feel of lips trailing down the side of your neck had you turning to bury your face in his chest with a huff. 

“Can't sleep?” 

“Why else would I be here?” you groused, before sighing again. “Sorry. Just… I've tried everything.” 

“I know. I was there.” His low, rumbly voice was faintly amused, and he brushed his lips over the top of your head, both arms wrapping you securely against him. 

“Shit, was I keeping you awake?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Don't be. Wasn't something you could help.” When you pulled back to face him, you could practically feel the exhaustion emanating from him. Gently, you traced the pads of your fingers across the circles that were constantly under his eyes. You'd never seen them, but you knew they were there as well as he did. 

“You haven't been sleeping well either.” It wasn't an accusation-- just a statement. 

“Yeah, but I never sleep well,” Bucky pointed out, reaching past you to pick up the forgotten glass and putting it in your hands. “You normally do.” 

“With acid-fueled dreams, sure.” 

“I thought you'd never taken acid.” 

“Don't have to. I know what it _feels_ like. It's not fun,” you told him, tucking your face into his chest just for moment before taking a sip of your milk. “If it’s anything like those pain meds I was on when they took out my wisdom teeth, I know what it feels like.” 

“Point taken,” he hummed, a chuckle rumbling through his chest (and by extension, yours). You loved that feeling. 

Sometimes you wished you could see Bucky. Other times, you decided it didn’t matter, you loved him just the same. And you did love just the feeling of his hair. He’d said it was dark brown. You believed him. 

Just like you’d believed everything else he’d told you. 

He’d never lied to you. There were times he’d avoided answering questions or cut conversations short, but Bucky had _never_ lied to you, and you had complete faith in the fact that he wouldn’t. 

The only time he hadn’t kept his word hadn’t been his fault. He’d gone out to pick up a few grocery items and hadn’t returned until a solid week later. 

He was a wanted man. You couldn’t file a missing persons report with the local police. 

That same man pressed a kiss to the top of your head now, wrapping an arm snugly around your waist and leading you back to the bedroom. You knew the way, enough to not knock a hip or elbow on a doorway or table, but you let him. You enjoyed it, really-- the little shows of affection or care, to you, made him seem less like the blood-soaked killer he’d described himself as to you before. 

That conversation had been interesting. He told you later he was scared to death that you'd see him differently. But you didn't. You didn't see him as someone or something to be fixed. He just simply… _was_. 

He'd told you after _that_ that his decision to trust you was one of the best he'd made in recent memory. You’d inferred from other things he said that he didn’t trust his memories terribly well, so it gave you the warm fuzzies. 

“Almost done?” 

“Almost,” you hummed, taking another sip. It might actually work-- you felt drowsy already. Or maybe that was just an effect of having him around. He always wore long sleeves, nothing would take that habit from him, but Bucky’s sheer warmth and scent were making you drowsy. He always smelled like sawdust. Sawdust and something spicy you could never identify. Mostly, you thought the sawdust smell was the shirts he wore that were kept in a wooden trunk at the end of your bed. The spicy smell was all him. 

You took advantage of that smell now, turning your face into his neck and inhaling deeply. He was used to this gesture. After all, with one sense missing, you had to make do with the other four. 

“Let’s say ‘done,’ “ he said, taking the mostly-empty glass from your fingers. You heard the quiet _thunk_ as he set it on the nightstand on his side of the bed, and with both arms wrapped around you he fell sideways into the sheets with you. You squeaked as the air was expelled from your lungs, but you couldn’t help a giggle, tucking your head under his chin and closing your eyes. Not that it really made a big difference. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you mumbled sleepily, stifling a yawn against his collarbone and barely noticing when he pulled the sheets up over the two of you. 

He dropped another kiss on top of your head, gentle as could be. “Good night.” 

You didn’t say ‘I love you.’ Neither of you did. You didn’t need to. 

Prior to the accident, you’d taken your sight for granted. Never having really been without it, you had no reason to do otherwise. You’d gone through all the stages of grief, and had been at ‘acceptance’ for three years now. After all, it had all been out of your control. It wasn’t as if you could have prevented the glass from the storefront window from shattering when those… _things_ came flying through New York. 

You lived in a less populated area now, somewhere less of a target. Not that it much mattered. You didn’t even know what color your house was. From descriptions you’d heard it sounded like a watered down suburb kind of area. And that was fine by you.

* * *

The following morning, you awoke alone. That in itself wasn’t surprising, nor was the small recorder on his pillow that he usually left to tell you where he went. You trailed your fingers over it to find the play button. 

_“Hey. Went out to pick up one or two grocery things for breakfast. I’ll be back in an hour.”_

_“Message left at: 8:04 AM.”_

“What time is it now?” you asked your phone after locating it. It was under your pillow while plugged in, as per usual. 

_“The local time is 8:47 AM.”_

“An hour, okay,” you murmured to yourself, yawning before making your way to his side of the bed and sliding off. Your bare feet hit the wooden floorboards of your bedroom with a comforting _thump_ , and once you’d slid your fingers along the edge of the nightstand, you walked confidently to the bathroom. The bathroom doorway was six feet and four inches away from the corner of the bedside table, and you reached it without incident, reaching out for the edge of the sink counter next. The toothpaste was exactly where you’d left it, and where Bucky knew to leave it. So was your toothbrush, and your hairbrush. 

Your house was organized to an impossible degree. But it was the only way you could make it around without help, or without your walking stick. Bucky knew this. 

Sometimes, you suspected that one of the reasons he stayed was because he liked the feeling of being needed, of being useful. You were fiercely independent-- but he needed to be needed. And you needed company. So the two of you worked well together. It helped that he was unobtrusive at the best of times, and that you could feel a room better than your average person. You got what he was feeling sometimes before he registered the emotion himself, and could help him counteract it. He didn’t treat you as helpless, though he helped you around where he could (and you tolerated it. Sometimes you needed that extra hand). 

Guide dogs had been suggested as an option for you, but you refused them. You’d never been much of a pet person. Plus, you’d have to care for a dog, which was a big responsibility, and not one you thought you could take on _well_ with your current situation. Other blind or visually-impaired people could. You probably wouldn’t. 

The sound of the front door to your house had you swinging around, even though you couldn’t see anymore, and you set down your hairbrush to make your way out into the front room. “Bucky?” 

“Home.” 

“Welcome home, Buck,” you said warmly, walking out into the open space of your front room and reaching out for him. Too-cold metal fingertips met yours and you delicately ran your fingers up Bucky’s coat sleeve to draw yourself closer. You reached up to give him a peck on the cheek. “What did we need from the store?” 

“Some vegetables. Chicken for dinner tonight. Milk.” 

The last item was added with a touch of humor and you gave him a playfully scolding look. “I know for certain I didn’t finish off the carton last night.” 

“No, I did this morning.” 

“A confession, I see.” 

“Guilty as charged.” 

His voice changed slightly and your face softened, taking his free hand and fighting the urge to blow on it to warm it up. Winter was well and truly here, then, if the water dripping off the metal was any indication of the snow outside. “Guilty of finishing the milk and nothing else, as far as we’re concerned,” you told him firmly, feeling for the kitchen island and taking a seat at the counter. You were mostly useless for putting groceries away in any case, and you yawned, still tired from the previous night. Sleeping well was great and all, but there was no coffee. 

“Coffee?” 

“You keep reading my mind, how do you do that?” you asked playfully, propping your elbow up on the countertop and resting your chin in a hand. 

“Practice.” 

“Teach me?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re too good at it already.” 

You grinned at him, a bright, shadowless kind of expression you saved for him without realizing what you were doing. He knew it for what it was and you could almost feel the answering smile on his face. When you’d met him, Bucky hadn’t seemed like the type of person who smiled often. You’d turned out to be entirely correct. 

That brought to mind the night you met, and your smile pulled up at the corners. 

“What are you grinning about?” 

“Do I need a reason to?” you asked innocently. 

“When I haven’t said anything in a few minutes, yes,” Bucky responded, and you heard the fridge door close. He must be done putting away refrigerated stuff. 

“Well, I was thinking about the night we met.” 

“... Why in the hell would that make you smile?” His incredulity made you chuckle, and you rolled your eyes in his general direction. 

“Because I still regard it as a fond memory. It’s one of the ones I have of you.” 

That shut him up, but you could feel the chiding expression he sent you. You’d adjusted well to life without sight, but maybe that had something to do with how well you could understand people in the first place. 

“... I don’t think it was all that,” he finally muttered. 

“I do,” you responded. “It brought me to you-- or you to me, I’m not really sure-- so I’ll take it.” 

It was practically a storybook meet-cute. You’d been out for a walk one evening, along a street you’d been around a thousand times and therefore had no fear of. That was, until the sound of a stray dog chasing a stray cat startled you, and you’d dropped your cane. You'd felt around for it as best you could with no luck, trying not to step off the sidewalk. You had no idea how long you stood there, waiting for the sound of somebody who could help (a feeling you unfortunately remembered and it was _horrid_ ), and Bucky had come along. Gentleman that he was, he’d not only handed you your cane, but also helped you home. 

That was probably the only time you were grateful for your blindness, which brought to mind a question. 

“... What do my eyes look like?” 

You’d never asked this before. The cease in movement from the other side of the kitchen island meant one of two things. Either he was thinking on how to answer, or he was inspecting the useless things in your face now. “Are they cloudy? Scarred? Maybe googly eyes?” you suggested helpfully. He was still quiet, which concerned you. 

“Warm.” 

His voice came from inches in front of you, making you start. You hadn’t heard him move. Normally he made some kind of slight sound so that you knew where he was. “Warm?” you repeated. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed, and you felt gentle flesh-and-blood fingers slide along your cheek. You leaned into them gratefully, though you still had a quizzical expression on your face. 

“What else?” 

“Else?” 

“Aside from just the feeling you get when you look at me, what else?” you persisted with a small smile. 

“...” 

You stayed quiet. He would answer you, you trusted him to. It was just a matter to him of putting his thoughts in order-- something he often had trouble with, particularly when trying to recall something. “... Warm and… and gray. Really light gray.” 

“My entire eye? Or just my pupil?” you murmured. You couldn’t see yourself anymore-- you had no reason to be concerned about this. And yet you were. 

“Just your pupil,” he hummed, and you felt him press a kiss to your forehead before he resumed putting away what the was left of the groceries. There couldn’t have been much. 

“Hm. I thought… well.” You trailed off, hesitating while you tried to put your thoughts into words. “... I guess I never thought about the changes no vision makes on the eye.” 

“When you stop relying on them they change to reflect that,” he stated. You heard a cabinet door close as he put something else in its place. 

“Is that fact or speculation?” 

“Speculation,” he hummed. You rested your chin in your hand, sighing softly. 

“... Sometimes I wish I could still see,” you said mournfully. This wasn’t your first time admitting it out loud, you’d come to terms that what you wished wouldn’t come to pass some time ago, but it didn’t stop the wistfulness. 

“I would say you’re not missing much, but I would be lying,” Bucky responded. His words were punctuated by the quiet _clink_ of a coffee mug as he set it on the counter, and the sound of coffee being poured into it. He adjusted it to the way he knew you preferred it, then set it in front of you and touched the handle to your fingers. 

“I’d take my sight back in a heartbeat if only to see you,” you admitted, reaching out to catch his wrist for a moment. Your fingertips traced over the back of his hand-- his metal one-- for a moment, before he pulled his hand back, cupping your cheek and pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“You don’t want to see me.” His voice was low-- and certain. 

You shook your head at him. “Yes I do. You could look like the hunchback of Notre Dame or-- or like some demon straight from the pits of hell, or some giant flesh-colored puppet filled with sentient yarn, and I wouldn’t care.” 

“Wouldn’t you?” He sounded skeptical. 

“I wouldn’t,” you insisted. “I know you for how you behave, what you say, how you think. That’s what matters. I’m not saying it wouldn’t help if you were attractive,” you added with a playful grin, “But ultimately, it wouldn’t matter, Bucky. Because you’re you. And you matter to me.” 

He was quiet for a minute, then you heard him sigh, stepping around the counter to wrap his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your temple. You hummed in appreciation, taking a sip of your coffee. 

“... This might be a bad time to mention I have a decent idea of what your face looks like,” you added helpfully. The vibes rolling off the man behind you now compelled you to explain. “We’ve both lost count of the number of times I’ve touched your face.” While you spoke, your free hand trailed up his arm until you could turn in his grip to cup his cheek. Best way to avoid poking him in the eye, after all. “And I think I can do a decent job of visualizing how your face looks… colors notwithstanding. You’ve told me you’re a brunette, and I think that’s all you’ve mentioned.” 

“What do you think I look like?” He sounded amused now, if still a little dubious, but he was humoring you, so you kept rolling. 

“Your nose is straight but has been broken at least once,” you told him, fingers delicately trailing to the bridge of his nose to follow it down to the end. Then you ever-so-gently tapped the point of his nose. “You’re usually frowning, but not with your whole face, just with your eyebrows.” Your fingertips went back up to between his eyes, carefully pressing away the seemingly permanent wrinkle there. “You’ve got a sharp jaw--” Your fingers traced the hard edge of the bone in question. “-- and a cleft chin, which is hereditary. Fun fact.” You paused, fingers scrubbing against the too-long stubble on his cheeks. “... You also may want to shave soon.” 

Bucky was quiet for a long moment, and it gave you time to have the flickering doubt that you’d said something wrong. Then his hand smoothed over your hair and he kissed your forehead, humming a sound you recognized as a chuckle. 

“Was… is any of that wrong?” you finally ventured, your own hand slipping down his metal arm to his hand so you could hold it. It was starting to warm up a little after being inside for this long. 

He ran his thumb over your knuckles affectionately. “No, none of it’s wrong,” he told you, patting your cheek before stepping away. 

You let him go, and you identified the sound of the cabinet that held the coffee cups. He was getting some for himself, then, and you tentatively reached out for the mug he’d poured you a minute ago, carefully sipping at it again with an appreciative sigh. The house wasn’t really _cold_ with the temperature you kept it at during the winter, but the coffee mug was warm. So was Bucky, you decided as he returned to you with a cup of coffee of his own and wrapped his real arm around you. You leaned back against him without hesitation. 

"So, as it's snowing outside-- not windy, by the sound of it-- what do you say to a brief walk? Ten minutes or less." 

"Why so short?" 

"Because I don't want to go far, besides which I don't want to risk you being out for longer than you have to be." Your voice was matter-of-fact, but you could feel him hesitate. He didn't hide the fact he was wanted from you, and you were glad he didn't, but Bucky seemed sensitive to when _you_ spoke about it. 

That didn't change the fact you didn't want to be out for long, though. 

"Also, I know for a _fact_ that your shoulder starts hurting when your arm gets too cold for too long. So. Ten minutes. What do you say, Buck?" 

"... Alright. Ten minutes." You could feel the slight rumble of his words through your chest, and hummed in satisfaction. "But finish your coffee first. It will keep you warmer for a little longer." 

"Yes sir!" 

**Author's Note:**

> So, fun fact, the majority of this I wrote when I was on a nine-hour plane flight; the screen in the back of the seat in front of me glitched and wouldn't cut off, so I stayed awake the entire flight alternating between writing blurbs and drinking coffee generously provided by the flight attendant (live long and prosper, Jeff, I still remember your name and how merciful to me you were when you continued to provide me with coffee). 
> 
> This morning, I finished it while on a two-hour flight even though there wasn't very much left to finish. I tried to do a little bit of research on blind individuals to make sure the comments in passing and statements were true to form, please forgive me if I'm off the mark.


End file.
